The Tyrant's Law (Dagger and the Coin)

a single apple or a shipping contract worth half the value of the city. Nor was that the only aspect of the market that left Cithrin feeling at sea.
    Her youth had been spent in the Free Cities where Firstblood and Timzinae had lived and worked in very nearly equal proportion. If asked, she would have said that she was perfectly comfortable with the race, with any of the thirteen races of humanity. The market houses of Suddapal showed her that that was not perfectly true. Walking through rooms and corridors filled almost exclusively with the dark-scaled bodies and twice-lidded eyes, she felt conspicuous. She was aware of her slight frame and unscaled, pale skin in a way she had never been before, and she disliked the feeling. And while no one was cruel to her, she could not help noticing that she was watched, considered, and commented upon. By stepping on a boat in Porte Oliva and stepping out in Suddapal she had become an oddity, and she didn’t know how to play the role.
    Adding to that was the depth of family connection and history that seemed to inform every negotiation. In her first hour, Cithrin heard reference made to the marriages of cousins three generations dead, to favors done by one man’s uncle for another’s niece, to shelter given by one family to another during the flood of a river whose course had shifted twice in the century since the kindness was offered. The same care and analysis that concerned the noble houses of Birancour or Herez applied to everyone here, and Cithrin despaired of ever mastering it.
    Though Cithrin didn’t complain, Magistra Isadau seemed to recognize her discomfort. The older woman introduced Cithrin as the voice of the Medean bank in Porte Oliva, gave Cithrin what context she expected her to need before they entered a negotiation, and explained any obscurities that came in once the discussions were over. Isadau never spoke harshly, never condescended, never reminded Cithrin through word or act that one of them was the master here and the other an apprentice in all but name. She didn’t need to. The resentment that Cithrin felt came from being aware of her failings already.
    “Oh no,” Magistra Isadau said, smiling as if she were sad and shaking her head. “We can’t accept last year’s terms again.”
    The man across the table from them chuckled. Even seated, he was half a head taller than Isadau. The chitinous scales on his neck and face had begun to grey and crack with age. Cithrin sipped at her tea and smiled politely.
    “You don’t do yourself any favors gouging us when we’re low, Isadau,” he said.
    “You aren’t low. You’re at war.”
    The man’s name was Kilik rol Keston, and Cithrin knew from her review of the books that he traded spice and olives from Elassae north to Borja, returning with worked leather and medicines. The bank had insured his caravans every year for the past decade and paid out the contract only once. It was the sort of information she would have used to make her determination in Porte Oliva or that Magister Imaniel would have considered in Vanai. It appeared to be only a part of Magistra Isadau’s calculations.
    “This isn’t a war,” Kilik said, “it’s the world teaching Antea a lesson about the price of overreach. If anything, it makes my work safer. The traditional families aren’t going to be arguing over who gets to levy taxes every half mile of the eastern passage.”
    “You’re hauling food and medicine past refugees,” Isadau said. “Next you’ll be storing your seed corn in a sparrow’s nest.”
    A thick man passing by their table clapped a wide hand on Kilik’s shoulder.
    “Why do you even talk to this woman?” the new man asked. “She’s only going to rob you.”
    “Misplaced loyalty,” Kilik said sourly.
    “Oh, did you want the contract, Samish?” Isadau asked, smiling brightly. Then to Kilik, “You know Samish has been offering very good terms on his insurance contracts.”
    “Better than yours, that’s truth,” Samish said, sitting down at Kilik’s side. Cithrin felt her gut go tight. Anywhere she had ever been, the intrusion would have been unforgivable. Here, it meant nothing. “What’s this hag offering?”
    “Half recompense for six on the hundred,” Kilik said, and Samish’s eyebrows rose like birds taking wing.
    “You’re joking,” he said, and Cithrin thought he sounded genuinely surprised.
    “Half recompense on expected sale,” Isadau said, “not on